“M-I-Crooked Letter-Crooked Letter-I- Crooked Letter-Crooked Letter I- Humpback-Humpback-I”
I remember the magic of learning that little expression, of
being able to spell such a long word at the tender age of six. I remember crying because it was supposed to
be on the first grade spelling test that week, and I remember sitting on Anne
Hammer’s couch while she taught me the trick the all kids must learn. I’m
thinking about that now because I’ve just misspelled it. At the ripe old age of
twenty-five, I have just written “Missippi” in my journal.
There are a couple of excuses I could use for that, I guess.
The first would be that article some paper my dad just showed me, the headline reading “Missippi’s Literacy Program Shows Improvement.” The headline could be a joke of itself, in keeping with the dry humor of this humid place, however it could have been an honest mistake. Neither would really surprise me, and I guess there’s really no way to know.
The other reason I could have misspelled it would have to be the heat.
There are a couple of excuses I could use for that, I guess.
The first would be that article some paper my dad just showed me, the headline reading “Missippi’s Literacy Program Shows Improvement.” The headline could be a joke of itself, in keeping with the dry humor of this humid place, however it could have been an honest mistake. Neither would really surprise me, and I guess there’s really no way to know.
The other reason I could have misspelled it would have to be the heat.
Something I’ve noticed is that the heat plays the scapegoat
of many happenings around here. The hot,
wet air, with no relief of immediately nearby beaches, acts like a wet blanket which covers the whole state of Mississippi. I suppose this same heat cultivated the whole culture of
the South, to some extent, at the point of its origin.
Plantations. White ladies in tight dresses, fanning their faces. Black
slaves made to do hot work in the cotton fields and kitchens. The culture which peaked to a head of division between cultures, with anger and resentment
on both sides. Some justified. Some ignorant. There’s still a lot of rage in
Mississippi between races, not everywhere, but definitely in certain places. It's a rage that undulates constantly beneath changes in fashion and politics. In
those lines of fury where no reason can be found, it’s hard to see how such
things can ever be solved.
But we were talking about heat, and I guess in the end, a lot of that rage goes back to heat, too. Injustice growing in a rich, fertile land, both nurtured by a hot sun. So plentiful and full of life, life must be poured out of Adam’s brow to earn the full reapings. Too much work for most.
But we were talking about heat, and I guess in the end, a lot of that rage goes back to heat, too. Injustice growing in a rich, fertile land, both nurtured by a hot sun. So plentiful and full of life, life must be poured out of Adam’s brow to earn the full reapings. Too much work for most.
So things grow here, but profit only grows by incredible
amounts of sweat. Nature threatens to reclaim constantly, and you see many people outdoors making sure it doesn't do just that. At the same time, many folks are
alright with just letting it. Houses and roads lost to the over and
undergrowth. Old tractors and trailers and automobiles make offerings to the vines
which then consume them. Things are not thrown away-NOTHING is thrown away- it is destroyed slowly by nature until it is almost nothing. But still there is enough hint for memory to see. Meanwhile, porch culture and Lipton are generational
traditions.
The sun bleaches everything, too, until nothing but the blue
sky and green grass looks new. Buildings, roads and parking lots are all that
pale, grey color, like the life has been sucked out of them. Cars look older. Anything exposed to the
elements becomes quickly aged. In the greyness of the outside, the home becomes
a destination to create your own society. To find life, you have to look there…there,
and also to the sun, the animals, the trees, the ponds, the people.
The people are affected too. Less clothes are worn in general, and
lots of folks are larger (the heat has made physical exertion more difficult despite
the presence of fried…everything). Things are not done, they are “gotten around
to”. It takes longer to say things here,
so extra syllables must be added to give the speaker adequate time.
Everything takes great effort, you don’t just say you gave someone a
ride to the grocery store, you “carried them” over to that grocery store.
The heat makes everything slower, older. Time itself is slowed down to the point of going backwards, to a place that modernity has forgotten, for better or worse. When I rumble down the country road which stretches between the house and the small, country town a few miles away, I have to marvel in the serenity of a pace which, for all its faults, exists nowhere else I’ve ever been.
